Marcus' Law
by ParchmentRose
Summary: For a certain Knight of Darion, anything that can go wrong will.


**Author's Note:** So much for _The Mathematics of Deceit_ being the priority, huh? No Marcuses were harmed in the making of this fanfic. At least, not fatally.

As usual, I don't own these guys, Ubisoft and Blue Byte do. Wish I did. Marcus, however, is glad I don't.

* * *

This was, without a doubt, the worst day of Lord Marcus of Challia's life.

The rain was coming down in sheets now. His clothes – shirt and trousers instead of his usual armour – seemed to be irredeemably soaked. As for the papers, they were a sodden, scrunched mess.

He squinted into the distance. The retreating white tail of his mount was just visible, moving swiftly away towards the lights of Vestholm Castle.  
Muttering something under his breath about dog meat and glue, Marcus began the long trudge up the hill.

He'd had bad days before, of course. But today - today absolutely took the cake.

...

_Early that morning ..._

Marcus sprinted around the corner and came to a screeching halt in the doorway. "Lani, could you check the -"

He closed his mouth abruptly. Sitting at the massive rectangular table in the Vestholm Castle kitchen were Kestral, Hakim and Thordal. Sabatt was sipping a cup of tea by the fireplace, while Elias was examining something in the oven. A couple of servants were scrubbing dishes at the far end of the room.

In short, everyone _except_ Alandra. Fantastic.

An awkward silence ensued, then Kestral spluttered. "'Lani'? Seriously?"

Marcus felt his cheeks grow warm as Thordal, Elias, and Kestral simultaneously cracked up laughing. Even Sabatt was chuckling.

Hakim spoke over the hysterics of the others, an act which Marcus would be eternally grateful to him for. "Lady Alandra left before dawn. I believe there are a few cases of measles near Western Glade she wished to investigate."

"Thanks." Marcus smiled awkwardly, then glared at the still-giggling Kestral. "Shut up."

"Language, Lord Marcus," the young woman mocked, scooping up a spoonful of porridge. "Whatever would _Lani_ say?"

"I think I'll skip breakfast," Marcus muttered.

...

Marcus stabbed at the training dummy viciously, dodged as the metal bar attached to it swung around, then sliced at it again.

The tilt yard at breakfast was quiet, of course. Mealtimes were the best time to train. Absolutely no one or nothing around except him, the training dummy, and the big puddle over there that he was doing his best to avoid. Vestholm had been having a lot of afternoon thunderstorms recently, and the castle grounds were suffering for it. Maybe he could make Kestral fill in the potholes. What, precisely, was wrong with one having a nickname for one's fiancé, anyway?

He circled the dummy, imagining it in a leather jerkin and metal visor. Yes, Kes was his friend, but that didn't stop her from being infuriating sometimes. They were all cooped up, that was the problem. No wars to fight, not even a bandit camp or a minor civil conflict to get the Knights of Darion out of each others' hair.

He lined up carefully, then struck at the dummy with the full force of his arm. The whole device swayed wildly as the pole swung around. He dodged again, backing away.

"I was not aware the idea was to completely destroy the poor machine."

Marcus started, stumbled and slipped, falling sideways into the puddle. He scrambled rapidly to his feet, sliding in the mud. The Queen was standing a short distance away, clearly trying to hold in laughter unbefitting a monarch.

"Your Majesty! I'm sorry, I'm just -"

"Covered in mud?" The ruler of the Darion Empire had schooled her facial expression, but her smile was distinctly amused.

Marcus looked down at himself. The Queen's assessment was correct. Chainmail, tunic, crest – the lot was splashed in water, dirt and the combination thereof. He sighed. "That would be accurate, my liege."

"I apologise for startling you." She nodded towards the castle. "I was just going for a walk. I wanted to see what my knights get up to when they're not having tea and biscuits."

He smiled ruefully. "Predominantly destruction of the training dummies, ma'am."

"As I see." Her dimple deepened. "I suggest you go and change before Lady Alandra sees you like that."

He saluted. "Yes, ma'am."

The Queen smiled and walked away. Marcus looked down at his armour again, sighed, and took one last swing at the training dummy. His practice sword hit the device with a sickening crack. The metal pole clattered ignominiously to the ground.

…

"That's an unusual sight."

Marcus looked up from the washtub and grinned. This was one person he didn't mind being startled by. "Me doing my own laundry, or not in a suit of armour?"

"Both." Alandra kissed him on the cheek, then perched on the railing. Castle laundry was done in a yard out the back. Usually, at this time of day, the castle staff would be swarming around, but the yard was vacant apart from them. "Where is everyone?"

"Day off. The staff all left after breakfast." He pulled his tunic out of the lukewarm water and examined it. There were still signs of mud on the right side. "Hakim told me you went to Western Glade."

"Yes." She sighed. "A couple of families over there have measles. Don't worry, I've had it," she added as Marcus looked up at her in concern.

"Good. Well, not good, per se, but – oh, you know what I mean." He plunged the tunic back into the water, splashing about a pint of it onto his shirt and breeches. Alandra smothered a laugh. He mock-glared at her. "Did you come here to ridicule my poor laundry skills?"

"Much as I'd like to say I came only for your company, I actually do have other business." She hopped off the railing. "I need a favour."

He bowed gallantly. "At your service, my lady."

"Thank you, Lord Marcus." She curtsied with a grin. "I need the paperwork for the weapons contract from the swordsmith, but I have a pile of tax records on my desk and no one's around to go and pick them up."

"Certainly, ma'am. I shall depart directly. Or as soon as I've had a chance to change."

"Thank you." Alandra curtsied again and turned to walk out of the yard. Marcus stepped forward to repeat his bow and knocked into the washtub. Water flew upwards, arched through the air, and splashed onto Alandra's departing back.

"Oh ..." Marcus pressed his lips together, unsure whether to laugh or run for the hills. Alandra turned around, face completely calm. She walked over to him, placed her foot on the rim of the bucket, and kicked. The remaining contents of the tub sploshed onto his legs.

…

Marcus peered around the doorframe. Good; the coast was clear. He walked as stealthily as he could across the main hall, feet squelching in his waterlogged boots.

"If you're gonna try to be sneaky, don't leave a trail." Kestral's voice was shaking. He whipped around; sure enough, there she stood in the doorway to the western wing. And, of course, there was a trail of tiny puddles where he had stepped. It probably came all the way from the side door.

"I'm not trying to be sneaky."

"Then why were you tiptoeing?" She leaned against the frame with a smirk.

"I was not tiptoeing. I was practicing stealth maneuvers."

"Mm-hm. How's _Lani_?"

"Unlike you, not about to be strangled." He turned and headed towards the staircase, resisting the temptation to make good on his threat. Before he had taken three steps, another voice echoed in the hall.

"Kestie, why's the training dummy broken? And why is there a river running between here and the … oh." Thordal halted in his progress from the back door, grinning up at Marcus. "Never mind." The younger knight flushed. He seemed to be spending an awful lot of today doing that.

"You _broke_ the training dummy?" He wasn't sure if the high pitch in Kestral's voice was induced by disbelief or impending hysterical laughter. Probably both.

"Yes, Lady Kestral, I did," he snapped, attempting to regain his dignity. "I suggest you refrain from informing anyone else of the fact, unless you want to be its replacement."

…

Marcus scooped up the saddle, spun around and lowered the massive piece of tack onto the back of his horse. Athos snorted, but at least he refrained from kicking out and dismantling the side of the stall. A _normal_ person would go to the swordsmith on foot – it was only a few minutes' walk – but Athos needed the exercise and Marcus didn't like the look of those clouds.

He straightened up the saddle and checked the stirrup leathers. Knowing his luck, one of them was probably broken or something.

"Have you broken your saddle as well as the training dummy?"

Marcus resisted the urge to groan. He should have known Kestral wouldn't take his threat seriously. "No. I'm taking proper precautions."

Sabatt reached over into the stall and rubbed Athos' forehead. The stallion huffed. "I see you've learned your lesson, then."

He refused to rise to the bait. Priding himself on his restraint, he reached down, grabbed the girth and began to buckle it.

Athos stomped a rear leg as he began to pull it tight. Sabatt withdrew her hand. "Temper, temper."

He wasn't sure if the woman was referring to him or Athos. He decided to continue the silent treatment, just in case, and tightened the girth the last few inches.

He was too focused on the saddle to see what happened next, but he heard it loud and clear. Sabatt yelped and boots scuffed on the stable floor. When he looked up a split-second later, she was standing on the other side of the aisle, rubbing her upper arm, while Athos was doing the best innocent look a horse can manage. Marcus didn't need to be a genius to come to the correct conclusion. For some reason, he felt no sympathy whatsoever.

"Sorry. Should have warned you."

She shot him a murderous look and stalked from the stables without a word. Marcus patted Athos on the wither and reached for the bridle, deciding to avoid being alone with her for the next week.

…

Marcus shoved open the door to the swordsmith, checking that Athos was securely tied with a quick glance over his shoulder. This particular smithy wasn't one he knew well; Marcus had only come in here once or twice in the past three months since he'd set up shop. It still felt familiar, though – the smoke, heat and clash of metal against metal were no different to the blacksmith he'd worked in as an apprentice. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

A burly worker was hammering a sword into shape on the anvil with his back to the door. To the unpracticed eye it looked like he was just smashing it, but Marcus knew better. He also knew there was no way the man would have heard him come in.

"Excuse me!" he yelled over the din, stepping forward and ducking under a low beam. The man didn't respond. "_Hey!_"

The fellow paused with his hammer in the air, then put it down on the anvil and turned. "Can I help you?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm here to collect the contract paperwork for Lady Alandra."

"Oh." The man brushed his hands off on his sooty work apron, doing absolutely nothing to help their state of cleanliness. "Sorry, but I'll need to see your authorisation."

Marcus blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Your orders. Paper. With words written on them." The man's eyebrows had disappeared under his scraggly fringe.

"_I_ need those?" Marcus' confusion lasted a moment longer, before it dawned on him. He was in civilian clothes. He was _never_ in civilian clothes. No wonder the smithy didn't recognise him.

The man exhaled. "Sonny, if you're going to waste my time ..."

Marcus cut him off brusquely. "Actually, I think there's been a slight misunderstanding. I'm sorry that I wasn't informed the fiance of the army's commander needed paperwork to run errands for her."

The man's face blanched; Marcus was promptly ashamed of the satisfaction he felt. "I – I'm sorry, your Lordship. I didn't know you without the armour, y'see."

"Quite all right." Marcus tugged at his shirt sleeve, suddenly embarrassed by his own rudeness. The man hurried over to a table blanketed with piles of parchment. It took him a few moments to find the right pile, then he sifted through it and handed a few sheets to Marcus.

"That's the contract and weapons orders, sir."

"Thank you." Marcus took a step backward towards the doorway.

"I beg your pardon for the misunderstanding, sir."

"It's not a problem. Good day." He withdrew as quickly as he could manage, barely acknowledging the man's salute.

…

Marcus jabbed his heels into Athos' sides with uncharacteristic force, then squeezed the reins lightly and patted the stallion's shoulder in apology. Thunder rumbled overhead, and he glanced up. Dark clouds were rapidly gathering; a perfect complement to his black mood.

What was wrong with him? He was snapping at his friends, laughing at others' misfortunes, intentionally humiliating innocent swordsmiths … it was lucky Alandra hadn't seen him during the past hour. This day was going from bad to worse.

Athos' hooves clattered on the cobbled road rhythmically as he rounded the corner. Just up the hill, and he could get back inside the castle and do something to snap him out of this – preferably something that didn't involve destruction of the Queen's property.

A blinding flash of light – just for a split second, but it was definitely there. Athos threw up his head. Marcus kept his hands low, holding the stallion in.

The thunder didn't rumble this time. It crashed and boomed, just a second after the lightning. Athos whinnied and kicked out. Marcus managed to steady him, but at the cost of the papers slipping from his trouser pocket and onto the road.

He groaned, hauled Athos to a halt and dismounted, keeping one hand firmly on the reins. The stallion followed him warily over to the dropped parchment. As he bent down to pick them up, lightning and thunder cracked simultaneously.

Athos reared and bolted up the hill, almost dislocating Marcus' shoulder as he attempted to hang onto the reins. The knight ran a few steps after him, yelling uselessly. Fan_tas_tic.

And then the clouds let loose.

…

Marcus trudged into the main hall soaking wet for the second time that day, attempting to straighten out the curled and damp sheets of paper. The ink was running in long black illegible streaks. No one was here to see him like this now, and he was profoundly grateful. At least _something_ was going right.

"What _happened_ to _you_?"

Spoke too soon.

It was Kestral, of course. She was standing in the doorway as before, face a mixture of amusement and pity. Both emotions set Marcus on edge.

"Not now, Kes," he said through gritted teeth.

"Just thought I'd ask." The young woman threw her hands up defensively.

"Where's Alandra?"

"I'm right here." She appeared in the doorway next to Kestral. Her eyes widened as she took in his bedraggled figure.

"Here." Marcus held out the destroyed papers with a weak smile.

Alandra paused for a moment, then stepped forward and took the useless contract. "Do I _want_ to know?"

"No, you probably don't."

She smiled up at him, then, to his momentary surprise, put her arms around him. He returned the hug, grinning faintly.

"Aww," murmured Kestral. Alandra released Marcus, wadded the papers up into a soggy ball, aimed and hit Kestral squarely on the nose.

Perhaps today wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
